


This Flame Would Keep Still

by IvyDevoss



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (but it's only one-sided at first don't worry!), First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, basically all that good stuff, clueless!Quentin, moody!Eliot, queliot, scheming!Margo, shipper!Margo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyDevoss/pseuds/IvyDevoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse<br/>A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,<br/>Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.<br/>Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo<br/>Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,<br/>Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.</p><p>(If I believed my answer was<br/>to a person who'd ever return to the world,<br/>this flame would keep still without moving any further.<br/>But since from those undergrounds<br/>no one has ever come back alive, if what I hear is true,<br/>I answer you without fear of infamy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Flame Would Keep Still

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's true: I have a new fandom. Not leaving the previous ones behind, just currently head-over-heels for the thing called Queliot. I have never written these characters before, so this fluffy little thing is just to get my feet wet. Hopefully more will be coming later. :)
> 
> Although I am also reading the series, the characters from the show are the ones I have in mind here.
> 
> The title comes from the Italian excerpt above, which is the epigraph of this famous poem:  
> http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

“Inconceivable?!” Margo let out a bright peal of laughter. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

“Stop being pedantic and give me that bottle.” Eliot extended a demanding hand. “You know what I mean. Unlikely. So unlikely as to be practically equivalent to zero.”

“I think you’re temporizing—" Margo put the bottle in his hand— “because you haven’t got the balls to carry though.”

Eliot scoffed and refilled his glass, making himself more comfortable in the nook they’d found in a back corner of the Cottage, a secluded spot that somehow no one could recall having seen before. All that mattered right now, though, was that it was removed enough from the common area that they could discuss… private matters.

“I’d ‘carry through’ on half the campus before I’d pick him,” Eliot declared. Margo didn’t even pretend to swallow it, merely sipping her Garrafeira and gazing evenly at him until he had to break the silence. “Jesus, woman, it’s like you don’t even know me.”

She finished her drink, stood up and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Keep telling yourself that, darling. I’m going to go start a betting pool.”

“You utter bitch,” Eliot muttered mulishly into his glass. The rich taste suddenly wasn’t as satisfying any more, and he dropped his head back against the wall with a small huff. Why did she always have to be right? And in such an insufferable way, to boot?

•••

“Quentinnnn, just the person I was hoping to run into!” Margo actually took his arm, which immediately set off alarm bells in his head.

“Um. Hi.” He tried not to tense up too obviously, but of course she noticed, and of course she pretended not to.

“Tell me you’re not doing anything Friday night.” The weight on his arm was suddenly so overpowering that he couldn’t keep walking.

“Well, actually—"

Margo cut him off. “Because I’ve decided we’re hosting a mystery party at the Cottage. You’re allowed to invite whomever you want, as long as they’re willing to play, of course. Eliot will be handling the drinks, I’ll be on hostess duty, so you’ll have to do something about the food.” She patted him on the cheek. “I knew you’d be a good sport. Spread the word this afternoon, won’t you? Ciao!”

Quentin stared after her in a mixture of resentment and confusion. ‘Doing something about food’ had never been his strong suit. He briefly wondered if he could manifest something, but just as quickly decided against it. Manifestation spells were fucking exhausting. And what the hell was a mystery party?

•••

As soon as afternoon classes were finished, Quentin located the person who, besides Margo, was most likely to know what a ‘mystery party’ was, and could also possibly furnish some useful tips on providing food for a party. Not that he particularly wanted to be involved in co-hosting a party at all, but he knew better than to try to stand up to Margo’s social machinations.

Eliot was straddling a balustrade, his back propped against one of the Ionic columns that graced the wide back terrace of Brakebills, on the side that looked out over the river and, on this northern end of the building, was usually inexplicably deserted. He had the remains of a cigarette between his fingers, and upon glimpsing Quentin he greeted him by blowing out a large and not exceptionally friendly cloud of smoke.

“Come to Delphi for wisdom? The Oracle has a headache and isn’t in the mood, please try again tomorrow.”

Undeterred, Quentin dropped his bag and leaned against the next column, his hands jammed in his pockets. “I need some advice.”

Eliot sighed heavily, and this time it was only slightly smoky. “Yeah, I don’t know if you’re familiar with how these things work, but the ancient Greeks used to pay for their prophecies.”

“What’s a mystery party?”

“What?” At this question, the self-proclaimed Oracle sat up slightly, before raising his eyes to heaven in exasperation. “Oh, don’t tell me Margo’s got that into her head again. Last time was an unmitigated disaster. I don’t know if that poor second-year ever spoke again.”

Quentin’s curiosity must have shown, because Eliot reluctantly threw away his butt and deigned to explain. “The idea is, there’s a mystery that needs to be solved by the end of the night. Each person gets told a clue at the door. The clues add up to explain the mystery, so you need to gather information, but you have to be careful not to give away too much too soon. As in real life, knowledge is power. First person to solve the mystery wins, but it’s all over at midnight. It’s ridiculous over-dramatic bullshit, but… it’s Margo. That’s kind of what she does best.” The mocking words couldn’t entirely conceal the fondness in his voice.

“And… the second-year you mentioned?”

“We don’t speak of it,” Eliot said darkly. “I suppose she’s assigned me some task that she wasn’t even going to tell me about?”

“Drinks. And she asked me to… ‘do something about food’.” Quentin rubbed his eyes, trying to think. “Do you know if I can, like, swipe something from the school kitchen?”

Eliot gave him a long and somewhat disappointed look. “Technically possible, but decidedly amateur. There are better ways. I’ll take care of it. I know the kinds of things she’ll want, anyway.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t. I’m not feeling chatty.”

“Okay.” Quentin wavered momentarily, but didn’t say anything else before picking up his bag and trudging off again.

•••

Margo had accused Eliot of being cantankerous lately, and indeed they’d been getting on each other’s nerves a bit more than usual. It was all because she’d gotten this ludicrous idea into her head that he was hung up on Quentin. Quentin, of all people! That was patently absurd. Quentin was a total loser. Smart, sure; brilliant, in fact, as much as Eliot was loath to admit it. And he wasn’t actually that bad-looking, when you took a closer gander at him. Nice bone structure and so on. And that hair seemed like it would be rather lovely to run one’s fingers through. And there was something weirdly compelling about the unremitting intensity of his presence, like a colossal amount of buzzing energy had been compressed into this one small unassuming form… in fact, it made it rather hard to look at anything but him when he was in a room. But that didn’t mean Eliot was hung up on him. He had merely been providing some guidance as an older student, that’s all. Quentin was his charity case, Eliot insisted to himself. Ugh, God, it was definitely time for a drink. Past time, really.

•••

On Friday evening, the hostess looked absolutely scintillating in a glittery black figure-hugging dress as she met each guest at the door, greeting them by name before whispering something into their ears—their assigned clue to the evening’s mystery—and exhorting them, with a conspiratorial giggle, not to forget it.

The mixologist was plying his trade in a plum-colored button-down (he appeared to have a subtle touch of matching eyeshadow on, but with the dim lighting in the Cottage, you couldn’t quite tell), spontaneously inventing ominous-looking cocktails for whatever whimsy might strike you. Few seemed to notice that his self-possessed charm wasn’t quite as pronounced as usual.

And the person who’d been supposed to ‘do something about the food’ was in the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief upon discovering that Eliot had indeed kept his promise and manifested (either metaphorically or literally—Quentin wasn’t sure how far Eliot’s talents went) a more than respectable amount and variety of food. It was the kind of food that’s so fancy you can’t tell what the hell it’s made of.

Quentin picked up a pale pink pillowy object with a translucent icing and took a bite, anticipating some sort of dessert. It was a creamed-salmon cake, and the icing was actually a lemon-mint glaze. The unexpected flavor, while not unpleasant per se, shocked his taste buds into revolt, making him gag a little. He decided to cleanse his palate with a good dose of alcohol before returning to brave the mysteries of the kitchen once more.

“Hit me with something, Eliot,” he announced, back in the main room.

“What do you want, a two-by-four?” the other replied drily from his station at the bar.

Quentin deliberated for a moment, weighing the likelihood of that being the name of one of Eliot’s concoctions against the alternative possibility, and decided not to risk it. “Just fuck me up,” he requested, mostly because he’d always wanted to say that but somehow hadn’t had the opportunity until now.

Too late, he realized that still left a few potential misinterpretations, but Eliot took pity on him and provided him with a dangerous-looking dark green drink.

The first sip almost made him choke, but with Eliot’s amused gaze on him, Quentin managed to gulp it down without coughing. “Wow, um… that’s very… original. What’s in it?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Eliot leaned forward on the bar, crossing his arms and lowering his voice. “Did you get a clue at the door?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of confusing, though.” Quentin and Alice had immediately traded clues. Hers had been _‘and the Q is J. Alfred’s song’_. Quentin’s was _‘you are the bullseye for the gunshy’_. Quentin debated sharing this information with Eliot. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to try to win the game or not. No one had yet mentioned what the prize was, or if there even was one.

“That’s Margo for you,” Eliot said, and was about to add something else when Kady swung herself onto a stool next to them.

“This is pointless crap,” she grumbled. “I need beer. What have you got?”

“Only imports.” Eliot managed to look smugly apologetic, which was quite a feat.

She snorted. “Whatever, I’ll take one. You guys playing this stupid game? My clue makes no sense.”

“Trade?” Quentin asked out of the side of his mouth. The game might be stupid, but after even a few sips of Eliot’s mysterious drink, he was feeling a little more indulgent and willing to play it out.

“I’ll just tell you mine, I’m not playing.” Kady paused to remember the exact phrasing, and then pronounced it: “ _In this Q &A, the A is Q._”

“Aw, Q, it’s about you,” Eliot trilled to Quentin, his spirits appearing temporarily lifted as he picked a bottle out of a cooler. “You’re the answer! To life, the universe, and everything.”

“Wait…” Quentin suddenly remembered Alice’s clue, and mentally strung it together with this new piece of information. _In this Q &A, the A is Q… and the Q is J. Alfred’s song._ “Did you guys ever read that poem called, um, what was it… J. Alfred Somebody’s Love Song?”

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” Eliot supplied.

“By T.S. Eliot,” Kady finished, before taking a huge gulp of her beer. “My old lit teacher was obsessed with him, made us read like everything he ever wrote. She was convinced he was gay.”

Quentin stared into the murky depths of his drink, not meeting anyone’s eyes, as he waited for the seemingly inevitable joke about gay people named Eliot. Instead, the loud sounds of the party surrounding them filled the sudden empty space in the conversation, until Kady abruptly wandered away, beer in hand.

Eliot busied himself with something that involved soft clinking, and Quentin wondered why he felt like it would be so awkward to walk away from the bar himself at this point. Maybe it was the drink, but he had a sense that time was stretching out softly, just a little, like a panther awaking from a nap. But if he was drunk, why did he feel like his clarity was increasing rather than receding?

A third-year guy he didn’t know rolled up to the bar with a cocky grin and a Bond wannabe attitude. “Gentlemen. Anyone willing to exchange information?”

Quentin smirked to himself at how seriously this dude seemed to be taking the game, but he bit. “Sure. I’ve got two clues to share, actually.” He wouldn’t give away Alice’s without her permission, but he knew his own and Kady’s now too. After providing them, he got two in return: the guy’s own clue ( _‘mine host pines’_ ) and Penny’s, which this sneaky fellow had apparently overheard and which was _‘lonely men in shirt-sleeves’_.

“Mine, host, pines?” Quentin commented to Eliot after the newcomer had left with his drink and his new knowledge. “That’s a random set of words.”

Eliot quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean? It’s a sentence. Mine host pines. As in, like, my host is…” His voice suddenly trailed off and he returned to whatever he was doing with the glasses, which apparently made them clink even louder now.

The second uncomfortable silence of the evening—although this time Quentin had no idea why it was so uncomfortable—was broken by the arrival of Margo, who appeared out of nowhere to deliver a stinging slap to his arm. “I told YOU to do the food! But that’s obviously Eliot’s handiwork in there. You’d better have given him something reeeeal nice in return for that favor.” The speed with which her voice slid from scolding into suggestive made Quentin’s ears grow hot. “It’s too bad, though,” she continued. “I was going to tell you my clue, but now I don’t know if you deserve it. Do you think he deserves it, Eliot?”

“I think you have something up your sleeve,” Eliot replied in long-suffering tones. “And you’re going to do exactly what you want regardless of my opinion.”

Margo tittered in delight. “So astute, my dear. I’m truly impressed. You, on the other hand—” she gave Quentin a pitying look— “need all the help you can get. Tell me honestly: are you even a step closer to solving the mystery?”

“Um…” Quentin mentally reviewed all the clues he had so far. “Not really.”

“Fine, then, here’s a freebie.” She put her lips right next to his ear and whispered, “ _The mermaids sing of love._ ” Drawing back, she gave him a broad wink. “The clock is ticking. Only twenty minutes left to figure it out!”

When she swept away into the crowd, Quentin started to feel like time was moving at its accustomed pace again. “Is it just me, or is she kind of acting like… she wants me to win the game?” he asked, but got no reply. When he glanced behind the bar, Eliot had vanished.

The party atmosphere was getting kind of oppressive at this point anyway and he realized he could use some fresh air, so with a vague idea of looking for Eliot, Quentin made his way towards the door, muttering “Sorry… excuse me… sorry” on automatic while his brain picked over the clues. He couldn’t quite remember all of them verbatim, but there was definitely something about a Q, a Q&A, and T.S. Eliot, and love and pining. He wished he could remember The Love Song of J. Alfred Whatshisface better.

Outside, the full moon was bright and Eliot was nowhere to be seen. But when Quentin rounded the corner of the building he found him, propped elegantly against the wall and having some trouble rolling a cigarette. Which was funny, because normally he could have done that in his sleep. He met Quentin’s eyes with a certain sort of thrilled resignation that was so out of place it made the hairs stand up on the back of Quentin’s neck.

“Uh, hey.”

“Yes, hello to you too.” Eliot had returned his attention to his cigarette, but he wasn’t even trying to roll it anymore. He was just holding it as if waiting for it to roll itself. The moonlight lent his hands a pale grace, and Quentin told himself that was a weird thing to be noticing.

“So, you never told me your clue,” Quentin said, apropos of nothing.

“Mine’s… silly.” Eliot made a disdainful gesture, but something about it didn’t seem quite convincing. And suddenly Quentin knew why.

“You’ve solved it, haven’t you? The mystery. You figured it out.” He paused. “Care to share?”

“Now, now, that would be cheating.” A bit of Eliot’s accustomed archness shone through, and he lifted his gaze to meet Quentin’s once more. “What was yours again? _‘You are the bullseye for the gunshy’_?” He tutted, shaking his head. “I’m not gunshy. That’s preposterous. I’m just biding my time. Waiting for the right moment.”

Quentin frowned, and swayed closer. “The right moment for what?”

Eliot threw down his failed cigarette, took a deep breath, and said “For this.” Then he turned, swept Quentin up against the wall, and kissed him hard.

•••

Quentin was too stunned and half-drunk to respond, so after a moment—too short a moment—the kiss ended. Eliot took a jerky step back. “My apologies. I—I don’t—oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“No, that’s… not shit.” Quentin shook his head. “I mean, you don’t have to apologize. Can… can we try that again? I promise I’ll hold up my end this time.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he said it, but the look of fragile dawning hope on Eliot’s moonstruck face was enough to make him instantly glad that he had.

The second kiss was more equally balanced, and lasted somewhat longer, and somewhere in the middle it involved Eliot’s hands sliding down Quentin’s sides, and Quentin realized to his great surprise that he enjoyed that sensation quite a lot. And wouldn’t mind feeling it again sometime. Maybe with less clothing involved. Although, wow, now his brain was really getting ahead of him, and he should probably slow down and live in the moment. Because the moment was turning out to be surprisingly enjoyable as well.

He had no idea how long it was before they stopped tentatively touching each other in the half-dark, but in something of a non sequitur, Eliot eventually stepped back and drew a pocket watch out of nowhere, whispering a word to it to make it light up with a tepid glow and reveal the time. “Five minutes to midnight,” he announced in low tones.

“Should I care?” Quentin asked.

Eliot gave a tiny breathy laugh, one Quentin had never heard before and immediately wanted to hear again. “Only if you want to win this stupid game.”

“Pretty sure we’ve already won.” As the words came out, Quentin couldn't tell if they were cheesy or not, but a delighted grin spread across Eliot’s face, so he guessed it didn’t matter either way.

“Your logic, dear sir,” said Eliot, crowding back in against him, “is infallible.”

•••

An indeterminate amount of time later, Quentin remembered something. “Hey. So, tell me your clue.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “My clue was _‘just give it a shot’_. Like she thought that wouldn’t be obvious. She’s been saying that to me for weeks. In regard to you, that is. It’s her tired refrain. So, yeah, I solved the mystery before the party had even started. On the basis of one clue. I don’t know why she’s been so obsessed with getting me to… get with you… but I guess she’ll be happy now.”

“Oh, she IS happy,” replied a third voice. Margo was standing at the corner of the building, hands on her hips, looking like the cat who got the cream. Her obvious glee couldn’t be concealed by her pretended indignation. “You boys are terrible at this game. I had to tell everyone that we had no winner! Where were you two? You should have come in and corrected me.”

“We,” said Eliot with impeccable elegance, despite the fact that he was still rather disheveled and wrapped around Quentin, “were otherwise occupied.”

Quentin wasn’t sure if it was just the moonlight playing tricks on him, but it seemed that Margo’s half-mocking expression softened for a moment into one of pure radiant affection as she and Eliot had some sort of brief wordless exchange, and then she was gone, and there were other things to distract his attention.

But later, in Eliot’s bed, with the owner of said bed flopped ecstatically across him and thoroughly asleep despite the way Quentin’s fingers kept hesitantly stroking him here and there as if to prove to himself that it wasn’t all a dream, he thought once more of the look on Margo’s face, and wondered if he’d underestimated her, in more ways than one. In any case, he’d have to thank her for throwing that stupid party.


End file.
